The Poisoned Heart
by DJ Caligula
Summary: COMPLETE! A dream-like story in which the Grima of the books meets the Grima of the movies, and Eowyn finds herself caught between the two.


"The Poisoned Heart"  
  
A vignette: the book-verse and movie-verse Grímas collide.  
AN IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: This just came out of my head. I have no idea what motivated it, but please tell me what you think, as I don't understand it myself.  
  
**************************** Note: I recently re-read "The Two Towers," and I was sufficiently impressed at the difference between the Gríma portrayed in the book, and the Gríma portrayed in the movie. In my mind, the two became separate entities. The book Gríma became something of a Derek Jacobi, a la "Dead Again." And I wondered, as I read, what would this Gríma think, if he met the Gríma, as played by Brad Dourif in the films? This story was the result.  
  
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Clad in nothing but a nightgown, with her feet bare against the cold stone, she found herself walking through the throne room of the palace, towards the vast carved doors on the other side of the hall. Part of her was screaming at her to stop, to turn around; but she couldn't. As if hypnotized, she continued her relentless progress towards the doors, which drew her, which whispered to her, like the most powerful lodestone imaginable.  
  
She knew she was dreaming. Yet she also knew that such knowledge would be lost, once she walked through the doors. What other universes did the dreamer access, flying upon the wings of slumber; what other minds did she occupy, while her body in the prosaic world was lost to sleep?  
  
Part of her was horrified at the thought of losing herself so completely. Yet another part of her, deep and obscure, yearned to see from the eyes of that other person, that soul who waited for her, on the other side of the door. Unable to stop herself, she pushed the doors open, and stepped over the threshold. She blinked, flung up her hands, and with a voiceless cry- found her entire world swallowed by a brilliant surge of light.  
  
***  
  
Dark dreams should not have plagued the sleep of Gríma, son of Galmod. For, envious men whispered, his life was a life surely led in the brightest of sunshine.  
  
By rights, he should have been the happiest man in Rohan. His hard work had served him well; at the age of fifty-five he had ascended to the status of chief advisor to King Théoden, and indeed he dined upon gold plate and supped on spiced meats at the worthy monarch's right hand. Perhaps other men, who mockingly called him 'Wormtongue' behind his back, thought him too fond of courtly leisure, too quick to conjure up a genteel phrase, and too lavish with his golden councilor's chain and wardrobe of autumn-gold silks and burgundy velvets. However, the King loved him, and cherished him as the wise and sweet-natured son of the warrior who had fought bravely at the side of his royal sire, Thengel.  
  
Yet although he was feted and honored as no other man in the kingdom, Gríma looked at times as if he were ten years older than his true age. His health was poor, his frame was frail, his hair, though thick and full, was almost entirely white, and his round, handsome, boyish face was creased generously with lines. But despite his age, the eyes of the great councilor remained- as ever- black and cold and hard, affixed to his face like black buttons sewn onto the soft cloth face of a doll.  
  
Gríma also smiled like a doll, and a painted smile often remained upon his delicate and well-formed lips. He carefully cultivated his reputation of graciousness, kindness and wisdom, yet within the quiet, mannerly shell of the gentle scholar festered the worms of hatred and acrimony. Now, Gríma was a rational man, and perfectly cognizant of the fact that hatred was an irrational emotion. But he tried not to dwell overlong on the reasons why he had grown to loathe the man he had so faithfully served, for so many years. For if he did so, he would think of his wife; and how she had died, screaming, copious blood running down her thighs. Thence lied madness. Gríma instinctively shied away from the depths; over the years, he cultivated a dislike of raw emotion. He preferred to think of the world as a mechanism, whirring and ticking at his command. Like a god, or a dwarvish artisan, he arranged the world as he saw fit. The delicious irony was that all the while he pretended to be the mere puppet of others- that his only purpose in life was to slavishly follow the whims of the king. Although for decades he had smiled and nodded and bobbed up and down, he had stealthily and assiduously built his base of power, and now, in his fifty-fifth year, he basked in the fruit of his labors, near- unrivalled domination over all of Edoras.  
  
A wise man had once said it was better to be feared than to be loved, and Gríma found this to be true. Love had only brought him pain and grief. Now, more than anything in the world, he derived pleasure in the fear that lurked in the eyes of others when they talked to him. He found it all very darkly amusing, that these mighty bright-haired warriors of Rohan should become so discombobulated in his presence. He, an aging man whose only weapons were well-chosen words! In his chambers at night, while he read his books and wrote his letters, he often meditated on the nature of fear. Perhaps sometimes he thought of Saruman, his true master, and when he did, his very soul felt nearly paralyzed. Yet Gríma was very good at compartmentalizing his thoughts. Any unpleasant thoughts he shoved away in the back of his busy mind; he preferred to think of the fear he inspired in others.  
  
Until he went to bed, that is. And he began to dream.  
  
Dreams, he had decided, were the scourge of rationality, the curse of the gods themselves; even insomnia was preferable. Yet one could not live without sleep for any great length of time- especially a man whose constitution was as fragile as his. Recently, he had fallen into the habit of taking a nightly draught. Sometimes it was successful- and he was able to sink into a dreamless sleep. Yet sometimes it was not.  
  
Every time he dreamed, it was different. Sometimes he dreamed of his father, blustering, ruddy and given to drunken fits of violence; sometimes of his mother, sad-eyed and grave; sometimes of his wife, Sigyn, who had died almost thirty years before. Sometimes he even dreamed of Éowyn, Théoden's sister-daughter, who was so strong and healthy and stupidly confident, as only the very young and callow could be. Sometimes, during the bright light of day, when he looked at her as she stood on the palace- porch, he imagined he saw Sigyn, with her long golden braid and skin as white as the petals of the Ever-mind that covered the burial mounds of ancient kings. Sigyn- beautiful and tender, with eyes as gray and glimmering as a distant river... Sigyn, who had teased him constantly about his bookishness. Her laughter had been so infectious, and how she had laughed with love and delight when he had held her warm white body in his arms, caressing her curving hips and her thighs, strong from years of riding the horses of the Mark...  
  
But then he would shake himself. Sigyn was dead; had been dead for longer than Éowyn had lived upon this earth. The maggots had long eaten the flesh from her bones; Sigyn, who, after the death of his parents, had been his rock, his refuge- who had been his first- and only- love. He had often cursed himself for ever leaving Edoras. Yet he had thought so little of it at the time. It seemed like such a simple thing- some cousin of his had died, and he needed to go to Aldburg to settle the matter of the inheritance. He imagined that Sigyn would have been safe with her cousins, with Lord Éogar and his wife. Éogar- a descendant of Éofer, the third son of Brego, son of Eorl himself- was the younger brother of Éomund, Théoden's own brother-in-law, and the trusted Companion of King Thengel himself. His lineage was prestigious indeed, and Gríma, who had always been impressed by the royal House of Eorl, was inclined to give much credit to it.  
  
Yet when he returned from his business, he found Sigyn much changed. She, who had always been so merry and full of life, had become quiet, and withdrawn. He little knew what to make of it, until several months passed, and he heard- through the whispers of the women of the household- that his wife was with child. He had been delighted, at first; that is, until he had done the math.  
  
He had confronted her. He blushed now to think of the names he had called her, but he had been out of his mind with fury and jealousy. Bitch, whore, he had screamed; could you not bring yourself to remain an honest wife? Were you so compelled to give me the cuckold's horns as you spread your legs for another? But she had thrown herself at his feet, and wept. She told him, tears running down her face, that Éogar had forced himself upon her. Raped her, like the dog he was. She had tried to stop him, but she could not; she had not his strength, and he whispered to her that if she breathed a word to anyone, he would brand her a slut and a temptress, who tried to seduce him from hearth and home...  
  
Gríma had remembered how he could not believe it; that he had felt he was living in a very nightmare. At first, he had been wild, and wanted to run Éogar through with cold steel. But Sigyn had begged him not to; Éogar, after all, was a powerful Lord and a Companion, and the brother of the King's own son-in-law, while he was but a young scholar, and the son of a mere thane. "And this is why," Gríma had snarled, "that he had chosen you to prey upon- for he thought that I should do little! Well, by the Valar, I shall prove that whoreson wrong!"  
  
Yet Sigyn had begged, and said that Éogar would kill him, and she would rather die herself than be the cause of his death. At last, Gríma had capitulated to her pleas. It was not only that he could not bring himself to deny her anything; he was also afraid. He well knew, that even though his father could fight as well as any lord, he himself was only skilled in matters of books and reasoning. The thought of facing a massive, broad- shouldered man like Éogar made him quake in his shoes with terror- and he despised himself for it. Despised himself for being a cringing, womanish coward, who could not even defend his bride from the vicious assaults of others.  
  
Sigyn then told him hat she would be willing to kill the child that Éogar had planted in her belly. Alarmed, Gríma had told her that this was not necessary; that he would be willing to raise the child as his.  
  
"What?" cried Sigyn. "And live with Éogar's smirks and innuendoes for the rest of our days? My husband, I love you as my own breath, but I should die before I incur such dishonor!"  
  
"Yet, I would not want you to risk yourself with the poisons of those women who profit from such matters," he had told her sternly. "For I love you too as my own breath, and I would never rest if you brought yourself to harm."  
  
She had agreed meekly, which really should have alerted him. But he had been too distracted to argue.  
  
A mere week later, he was woken up by Sigyn's screams; she had collapsed on the floor of their chamber, writhing, with a river of blood pouring down her legs. As he held her in his arms, weeping, she whispered brokenly, that she was so sorry, that the potion had been too strong for her and the babe too far along; but she would rather die than bring him any dishonor. He kept weeping, as her blood pooled on the floor, and her breath stilled and her flesh at last grew cold.  
  
That had been near thirty years ago, but it was still fresh in Gríma's mind; fresh as if it had been yesterday.  
  
Perhaps there was some resemblance between Sigyn and Éowyn, the daughter of Éomund, and the niece of Éogar. The White Lady of Rohan, they called her. He often told himself, with the cold fury and contempt that had become his second nature, that she was a mere shadow compared to his Sigyn. Yet for all her silence and cold royal manners, she would be one of the tools of his vengeance, upon the vile fools that lived in this godforsaken country. Gríma's mind had worked it all out, with the cold precision of a metal mechanism. She would become the bride of his old age, once he worked his will upon the kingdom of Rohan, and his master paid him for his service. This daughter of Éomund would bear him a son that would become King of Rohan after him, once all the men of the thrice-damned House of Eorl were moldering in their graves.  
  
But more often than not, he dreamed of Sigyn ... Sometimes he dreamed he was in a dark pit, chained to three large boulders, like the most ignominious prisoner, with a venomous snake dripping poison onto his heart; and she held a bowl above him, collecting the poison so it would not fall upon his chest. And she- as young and blooming and rosy-fair as the day she died- would gaze upon his now wracked and aging body, with her face twisted with grief, and tears would stream down her cheeks....  
  
That dream, of course, was the bitterest of all.  
  
Yet it happened one night that he had a dream which was far worse.  
  
It happened on a night that he took a drugged posset, so he did not expect to dream. He expected to fall into the black pit of slumber, far away from phantoms of the past; yet- in the peculiar lapses of time that happened between the worlds of dream and waking- he found himself walking through the throne room of the Meduseld, his shriveled feet bare against the runic mosaics that stretched before the dais that so proudly bore the king's golden chair. Gríma realized he was clad in naught but a nightshirt; and he supposed he was glad it was merely a dream, for he knew that without the dignity of his robes he cut a ridiculous figure. He felt, obscurely, that he needed to reach the palace-porch that lay on the other side of the doors, yet, for the life of him, he could not say why he had to do this.  
  
And- with a strength he would not have imagined possible- he pushed open the mighty doors of the Meduseld as if they possessed no greater weight than feathers, and walked outside, into the sunlight.  
  
And that was when he saw her- his beloved Sigyn, looking as she had upon their wedding day. Her hair, gold as a sheath of ripened wheat, blew in the wind; and her slender figure was clad in the creamy white of clouds, or the wings of a swan. Looking upon her, he felt the years of hatred, bitterness and cold vengeful anger wash away from him; and for a moment he felt again like a young bridegroom, with his whole life ahead of him, as empty and fresh and clear as a sky after a rainstorm.  
  
"Sigyn," he whispered.  
  
The girl turned around, and smiled. She was beautiful, with features like an ivory cameo, and lips as red as a southern rose. But she was not Sigyn.  
  
"Do I know you, grandfather?" she asked. Her voice was low and melodious, and sweet as a note struck from a bell of silver.  
  
He shook his head, as if clearing the fog away. How could she be Sigyn? If she had lived, she would be fifty by now. "I'm sorry, my dear," he said with a sigh. "I did not mean to disturb you. I must have been daydreaming. It seemed for a moment that you were my wife."  
  
"Sigyn?" asked the girl.  
  
"Yes. Sigyn daughter of Sigemund. Know you her, or her family?"  
  
"No. I'm sorry, sir. I don't."  
  
Gríma sighed again, feeling the weight of his age, pressing heavily upon his shoulders. "I am not surprised." He rubbed his forehead wearily. "She's been dead these twenty, thirty years."  
  
"Well," said the girl softly, "it makes no difference how long a loved one has been dead. There's a part of your heart that will always belong to them." When he looked her, his dark eyes piercing, she blushed and gazed down at her feet. "You see, my- my parents died when I was very small. But not a single day goes by when I don't think of them."  
  
"Yes," said Gríma, with deep feeling. "Yes, by the gods!" He gazed at the glorious vista before them, at the lush green-gold hills rolling into the distance, and the grey-silver clouds massed upon the horizon. Far away in the distance, he spied the waters of the Snowbourn, and pointed. "See... every morning, Sigyn would ride by the river, upon her black mare Hrim-faxi, that she had raised from a foal. Now, I know it's true that most of the daughters of Rohan love their horses, but- I really think Sigyn had a special skill for them. Even the wildest, most unbroken steed would calm down in her presence. She had a deft, assuring air, and certain- quietness- that the animals found very soothing." He wagged his head and gave her a rueful smile. "I'm sorry, my dear. You must forgive an old man for romanticizing! I'm sure every proud father and husband says his daughter or lady has the horse-gift. You must think I am very foolish indeed."  
  
"I don't think you're foolish," said the girl shyly. "What did she look like, your Sigyn?"  
  
"She looked- like you." He looked away. "Very pretty, and kind as the day is long. She had long hair, the color of daffodils, and eyes like a river in winter. And when she smiled, it was sunshine breaking through a cloud- " He suddenly stopped, embarrassed at revealing so much. But he felt so comfortable with this girl- as if she were a cousin, or an old friend. It was very odd indeed. Perhaps they had met before. Why did he feel he knew her so well?  
  
"Please don't stop," said the girl.  
  
"But I'm afraid I'm boring you."  
  
"Oh, you're not, really. I like hearing about your wife. She sounds- lovely. I wish I could have known her." The girl looked away, towards the horizon. "I like to think," she went on wistfully, "that we could have been friends."  
  
"You would have been," he said, with sudden conviction. "Without a doubt."  
  
"You must," said the girl quietly, "have loved her very much."  
  
At that, Gríma could barely speak.  
  
"Yes," he said thickly. "More than anything in the world. I loved her with all my soul." He closed his eyes tightly, shaking. "And when she died. it was as if. my heart was ripped out of my chest."  
  
The girl stepped forwards, and tentatively placed one soft hand on his arm. "You never remarried, did you?"  
  
He shook his head. "How could I?" And a sudden, horrible thought came to him. What would this sweet young girl say if she knew that he was planning to remarry someone? And not someone who could ever compare to Sigyn, but a horse-faced, cold-eyed noblewoman who was not only the niece of the king he was betraying, but the niece of his most hated enemy? What would she say if he told her this marriage was purely for reasons of vengeance; that it was his way of wreaking havoc and humiliation upon the family of the man that had caused the death of his beloved? Just trying to imagine her reaction made him feel faintly nauseous.  
  
But the girl must have misread his thoughts. "Life is too short to spend alone," she said gently. "And I am sure there are other women who deserve your love."  
  
She paused.  
  
"I'm sorry, grandfather. I never asked your name."  
  
He inclined his head, with courtly grace. "And I am sorry, my dear, that I never offered it. I am Gríma, son of Galmod."  
  
At the sound of his name, the girl froze. "No," she choked. "No- it can't be. How- how can you jest about such a terrible thing?"  
  
"I am not jesting," he said, honestly confused. "That is who I am."  
  
"No," she gasped. "Please tell me you're joking. You can't possibly be him-"  
  
Like a frightened doe, she jerked, startled, towards a rustling sound that emerged from behind them. "Lady Éowyn," a voice hissed, and small and sinuous black figure glided in front of them. "My lady Princess. You seem distressed. Is this old man bothering you? Shall I- dispose of him?"  
  
Gríma himself stood stock-still in astonishment. Éowyn! By the gods, this girl couldn't be Éowyn! Éowyn was a bitch with ice water for blood. This girl was beautiful and considerate and kind-  
  
"Lady Éowyn?" the black-clad newcomer queried smoothly. "Is aught the matter?"  
  
Yet this girl- Éowyn- was staring at him with as much consternation and horror as he now felt. In fact, her face had drained of color, and her mouth was opening and shutting, just like a goldfish. She at last breathed: "My lord- he- he says he's you!"  
  
Again, the little dark man in front of Gríma hissed. "What?"  
  
Gríma set his hand on his hip, as if were lording over the high council, and not merely standing there in his second-best nightshirt. "I am Gríma, son of Galmod," he said flatly. "I am the head councilor, chief advisor and right arm of Théoden, King of Rohan." But as he really looked at the man in front of him, he felt suddenly stunned, as if he were suddenly confronted with his reflection, even though the man looked wholly as different from him as the moon did from the sun. And the other man just stared back, his expression completely identical.  
  
The other man was a good fifteen years younger than he, but he had to be one of the ugliest men he had ever seen. Gríma himself was pale, and generally preferred a candle to the broad light of day, but this man was extraordinarily white; indeed, he was as white as a cave fish that never emerged from an underground lake. His hair, black and lank, was coated with grease; and his eyes were blue, watery, and nearly bugging out of his skull. His attire- layers upon layers of black robes- was intricate to the point of absurdity, and he clutched a lace handkerchief like a Gondorian dandy. Yet, for all the other man's affectations and dark serpentine strangeness, Gríma felt he was gazing at himself in a mirror- a ghastly mirror, a supernatural tool of Saruman's. And a small voice whispered in his mind, that if there were any justice in the world, he, who was plausible, gentle and fair, should look exactly like this, this worm that wore its soul upon its sleeve; this black blatant snake that had crawled out from the depths.  
  
"You lie," said the other man, and at this familiar phrase, Gríma started. "You cannot be Gríma son of Galmod."  
  
"And why not?" he said icily. He folded his arms. "Are you questioning the virtue of my mother? Such insults ill-become you, whoever you are!"  
  
The other man continued to stare at him, with his eerie blue fish-like eyes. "You cannot be Gríma son of Galmod- for I am Gríma son of Galmod."  
  
Gríma stared back. Part of him was not surprised at all, but his intrinsically rational mind, so used to the prosaic machinations of the world, could hardly grasp such- such preternatural strangeness. He floundered, mentally, until at last he was able to collect himself.  
  
"You lie," he hissed venomously. Now it was the younger man's turn to start, but Gríma continued. "Do you think you can possibly prove yourself? I should like to see you try, you odious imposter!"  
  
"Doddering old man," said the other Gríma through gritted teeth. "Are you challenging me?"  
  
"You catch on quickly, O benighted child of an ignorant mother."  
  
"You are free with your insults. But I should like to see you as free with proof of your identity."  
  
"In that case, sir," said Gríma with a haughty air, "I shall be delighted to oblige you."  
  
"Tell me, you babbling oldster; who was responsible for the orcish raids in West Emnet at the last Harvest festival, that killed two hundred men, women and children?"  
  
"Saruman the White, of course," said Gríma coolly, as Éowyn gasped. "Our ancient ally who has now defected to the banner of Mordor, because centuries of studying the palantir has convinced him that the side of light has less to offer his distinguished sensibilities than the side of dark. Now tell me, youngling, why did the Rohirrim not confront Saruman, when the helms of the orcs were clearly emblazoned with his sigil?"  
  
The other Gríma gave a savage grin. "Because I convinced that fool Théoden that the orcs, by counterfeiting the sign of Saruman, were merely attempting to sow discord in our ranks."  
  
"Very good, " he said approvingly. "But how could you do this, when Éomer, who has many good friends among the high ranking nobles of Edoras, had some suspicions to the real nature of the culprit?"  
  
"Because I convinced his Majesty and the council that Éomer's mind was somewhat unbalanced, due to the loss of his father by orcish spear at such a tender age." The other Gríma smirked. "But I have answered two questions in a row. Now; how were you able to ascend to the status of chief advisor, when up until last year the very worthy and capable Lord Hálga was occupying that position?"  
  
"By poisoning him, of course," said Gríma, as Éowyn gasped again.  
  
"But, do tell me, old one, how could you accomplish such a feat?"  
  
"Easily. 'Twas child's play." Feeling pleased at his cleverness, he waved an elegant hand in the air, as if merely discussing the weather. "Lord Hálga was an old man who had long outlived his usefulness, and he was well- known for suffering from various stomach ailments. It was not a matter of much complication to slip a bit of antimony into his drink, whenever I chanced to dine with him. As you know, of course, antimony, like arsenic, is a tasteless white powder, except for a bit of a bitter aftertaste. Food and heavy drink disguise it well. And it is easy to obtain, as ladies use stibnite- that is, antimony in a mineral form- as a cosmetic for the eyes. Such compounds are easily obtained at any apothecary's in Minas Tirith. But you know this, of course."  
  
"Of course," murmured the other Gríma.  
  
"And, of course, when Hálga's condition inevitably worsened, I offered my skills at physic, for which I flatter myself that I am not unrenowned. From there it was not hard to be continually slipping this worthy gentleman a variety of carefully spiced potions and medicines. When he at last died, vomiting and fouling himself, people merely attributed it to a fatal bout of gastric fever." He spread his hands, ending his story. "And that, sir, was all there was to that."  
  
Éowyn made a choking noise. The two men turned around and stared at her. She stood there, trembling like a leaf; her rosy face had become absolutely bloodless, and her eyes were wide as saucers.  
  
"Dear gods," she cried. "You- you monster! You disgusting monster! You boast of poisoning someone? Someone who trusted you?" She clasped her quivering hands to her mouth. "I thought- I thought I liked you. I thought- you were someone good. But- you're worse than he is! He- at least looks like what he is. You look like the gentlest old man in the world- but you do nothing but spew lies and poison! Blessed Oromë!" She stared at him, tears brimming in her gray eyes. "How could you ever claimed to have loved your wife?"  
  
Gríma stared at the girl who so resembled Sigyn, when she was young- and how she was gazing back at him, with utter repulsion. His stomach knotted, sickeningly, as if he had just ingested his own dose of antimony. "Éowyn," he began hesitantly, stepping towards her. "Please believe me- I did love her. But- if you'll let me explain-"  
  
"No!" she shrieked. "Don't come near me, you viper!" And as she flung up her hands, shielding herself from him, the world shattered into a million fragments, a thousand refractory shards of colors, as if the mirror of Saruman itself had exploded; and as darkness overcame him, Gríma knew no more.  
  
***  
After the shattering, and being flung headlong into a black void- she at last found herself, standing on a ledge in a dimly lit abyss, with an ivory basin in her hands.  
  
Éowyn blinked, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. There was a man beneath her; he was chained, struggling and helpless, to three boulders- the first underneath his head, the second underneath his loins, and the third underneath his feet. He was him- that other Gríma, the one she first thought seemed like such a kind and distinguished grandfather. She remembered bitterly how she had also thought that if he were twenty years younger, she would have thought him fair indeed. Indeed, as he had so lovingly described his wife, she had imagined him, in his younger days, to be the sort of gentle scholar who perused the vast libraries and great museums of Minas Tirith; the institutions that she had always heard of, and always longed to see. Instead... he had turned out to be a vile murderer- a poisoner- a worm. By the Valar, she thought angrily. She was truly a gullible fool!  
  
She stood there for a moment, cursing herself, until she realized what she was doing. She was holding the bowl over the other Gríma's heart; for above him was fastened a serpent, with its mouth and forked tongue dripping poison steadily downwards. As the clear venom dripped steadily into her bowl, she stood there, immovable as a statue. It occurred to her that she was saving this monstrous man from torments which he no doubt deserved; but she could not bring herself to move. She was utterly rooted to the spot.  
  
And as she stared at the other Gríma's face, she realized that she did remember him when he was young, when he studied in Minas Tirith. She remembered him clearly when his face was unlined and his hair shone a burnished brown, for she was not only Éowyn; she was Sigyn too.  
  
And as this discovery dawned upon her, she remembered- in an overwhelming flood of memories- all the love she had ever felt for this man. How this poor scholar had wooed her, awkwardly, reciting classic poetry to take her attention away from the blond, muscled warrior-thanes who constantly danced attendance upon her; how she had insisted on taking him for a wild careening ride on Hrim-faxi across the grasslands; how they'd first made love, fumbling and giggling in the warm hay of a nearby barn, after drinking more mead than necessary at the Harvest Festival; and how she had defied her wealthy cousins, who thought even a poor relation of theirs could do better than an overly bookish thane's son with suspiciously dark hair. She also remembered, with a barely dimmed fury, how one of her wealthy cousins- Éogar- had raped her, correctly assuming that a fatherless and brotherless wife of a fatherless and brotherless scholar was also powerless. She remembered how Gríma had taken the news, and she even remembered her death, from the aborticide that he had begged her not to take. Indeed, the part of her that was Éowyn knew all the evil he had done in his misbegotten quest for vengeance- but the part that was Sigyn still loved him with all her heart, and could not bear to see him suffer.  
  
He gazed up at her, with his beautiful onyx eyes, and whispered, through cracked lips. "My love-"  
  
"My love," replied the part of her that was Sigyn, "I shall be here for you, come the end of the world." And the part of her that was Éowyn blinked; and suddenly the man lying fettered before her had not white hair, but black; and his eyes were not dark, but the palest blue. Yet she blinked again; and he became, as before, the other Gríma, the one that Sigyn remembered; not the Gríma that Éowyn remembered, the dark man whom she had once befriended when she was a little girl, and who now stared at her, with such unfulfilled longing, and terrible hunger.  
  
For the longest time she stood there, listening to the hypnotic dripping of the snake-poison as it fell into her basin. She at last realized that her receptacle was full, and that the poison was in danger of overflowing altogether.  
  
"My love," she interrupted softly. "My love, the bowl is full. I must empty it."  
  
And- with her eyes shining with tears- she pulled the bowl away from his head, and emptied the collected poison onto the ground. She turned around, desperate to return to her post before the next drop fell from the serpent's mouth; but all of a sudden, she felt as if she were moving through deep water. Helplessly, she saw the drop, pure and crystalline, bead and plunge through the air- and she knew, with an awful certainty, she was not going to make it in time. The part of her that was Sigyn was filled with horror- for she knew somehow that the pain of the venom would be more than any man could bear, and there was no way she could protect him; and it would be all her fault-  
  
And as she struggled in vain to return to her position, the part of her that was Éowyn saw that the eyes of the chained man had again become the most brilliant and piercing blue-  
  
And then, suddenly, she was there, chained to the rocks. Again, she was Gríma- that other Gríma. But for the first time, unimpeded, she found herself gazing up at the viper's scarlet blossom of a mouth; and she watched, with unbelieving horror, how the poison fell through the air, towards her vulnerable heart. She writhed and twisted and nearly rubbed her wrists raw against her fetters, but it did no good; the cold iron still bound her tightly in place. As surely as moonrise, the venom dropped right onto her breast, burning right through the skin to reach the heart that lay beneath.  
  
And the pain- dear gods, the pain was worse than anything she ever could have feared. It was scalding indescribable agony- more excruciating than if a thousand white-hot daggers had been plunged into her flesh. And she screamed, and screamed, and screamed-  
  
And with that, Éowyn woke up.  
  
She sat up, casting aside her bed-clothes- sweating, shaking, and still clutching her heart. It was just a dream! she told herself frantically. You are not Gríma. The real Gríma is a monster and that other Gríma- does not exist. Has never existed. Neither has Sigyn. You are Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, and that is all you are, and ever will be.  
  
She clutched her head and groaned. The gods themselves only knew why she was being tormented with such strange visions...  
  
But, after she laid back down to bed, waiting for racing heart to slow down, she could almost swear, in the harsh wind and rain that blew outside her window, she could still hear the sounds of a man weeping for his beloved, who would ever and always be far beyond his reach. 


End file.
